Maid or not, It Suits You
by PeiPei
Summary: A wicked story about Captain Barbossa, a Spanish lady, her maid, and a scarlet dress. The key word is "deceit". You've been warned.


Disclaimer: "Pirates of the Caribbean" belong to Disney; the quotations from "Celestina" belong to its author Fernando de Rojas, and the quotations from songs "Noble en Tinacria naciste" and "Como ha de saber Belilla" belong to their author Juan Hidalgo.  
  
Warning: This story is taking place about fifteen years before the movie. There is no Jack or Will, or Elizabeth in it, not even the Black Pearl or its crew, just Barbossa and a few OCs, and a wicked plot. If it doesn't scare you away, you are most welcome: I write for you.  
  
Beta: Ewa. Thank you, mate, so much. You know this humble fic is for you.  
  
A/N: This fic was inspired by a deleted scene, one in which Barbossa compliments Elizabeth on wearing the scarlet dress. The plot bunny bit me really hard, I'm still bleeding. Ouch. And in case you don't know: 1) marrano/marrana is an old name for a Spanish Jew, and ladino is, basically, a specific language used by the Sephardim (descendants of Jews living previously in Spain and Portugal), with vocabulary being a mix of Hebrew, Spanish and Portuguese, and grammar based on Hebrew; 2) vihuela is a Spanish predecessor of guitar; 3) jacara is a kind of song about thieves, thugs and people of low social standing, very popular in 17th century Spain.  
  
I'd like to thank all the kind reviewers of my previous story, and I thank K. for the "Arabian singer" twist, which helped me so much this time.  
  
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Maid or not, It Suits You  
  
It's first time in my life, when I'm going to everyday sleep with a taste of a kiss on my lips, knowing that I will be awaken with a kiss too. Sometimes I manage to wake up earlier and it's my turn to kiss.  
  
Nobody ever comes in to interrupt us. My lover's legs are entangled with mine, her black hair is entwined with my chestnut one. Her hair is straight and much longer; my hair tends to curl slightly and I don't need it to grow longer than to my shoulders. I have no time to take care of it anyway. I am only a maid serving my dona Ursula, but she is also my lover in the sweet hours we have to ourselves, and nobody knows our secret. She'd love me dressed richer and better than that, without a ridiculous white bonnet hiding my hair, but all we can do is to get rid of our clothes in the night and to delight in what God gave us; and not to think about what men's world imposed upon us to wear.  
  
We are at sea from more than two weeks, aboard a merchant ship called Joya del Mar, going to Santo Domingo, where dona Ursula's husband has his newly inherited estate. It's my lady's first sea travel and she is spending most of her time on the main deck, gazing upon the waves, bathing in salty breeze, never bored and never tired of that blue and green monotony of the waves being one with the horizon. We're blessed by a beautiful weather and our days on the Joya del Mar are passing away swiftly, round and slippery like dona Ursula's rosary beads.  
  
We sailed from Cadiz, but I met dona Ursula in Sevilla. I remember our first meetings in the dark of the Andalusian nights, with street walls still warm after whole day of heat. Hidden in the merciful shadows of the Cathedral, we were melting in each other's impatient embrace, eager to share our joy on finding an equal and an accomplice in the art of illicit love. Oh, the Sevilla Cathedral is so kind to lovers, with La Giralda, the Moorish tower spared by Christians, watching tenderly over them. Dona Ursula's old nanny, Catalina, was accompanying her with a small lantern to the Cathedral's entrance, then she was staying to pray. I never asked if Catalina knew whom her lady was meeting; my thoughts were for dona Ursula alone from the moment the velvety hood of her cloak was down. Then Catalina died shortly before don Diego, the husband, inherited the Santo Domingo estate, and took our secret to the grave. I think she was more loyal to her mistress than even to God and all his saints, and I hope she's singing with the angels now, praying for dona Ursula and me. Was it for her prayers, I don't know, but we've managed to turn Fortune's wheel to our profit; dona Ursula demanded a new maid in old Catalina's place, then she engaged me and took me with her to Santo Domingo.  
  
When I appeared in the big, dark house of the Ayala family and was presented to don Diego, dona Ursula's husband, he was slightly surprised. I am much younger than dona Ursula herself, not to mention Catalina. I think my mistress is about thirty-eight, and I am fifteen. He looked at me, when I was standing modestly in the thick shadow of heavy curtains, with my eyes downcast and hands folded, then he looked at his wife.   
  
"Why would you want such an unexperienced maid, senora? She wouldn't be able to do ordinary chores at all, she's too young. Moreover, we are going to a wild and strange land. Is she strong enough to be of any help to you there?"  
  
"She is an orphan, senor. She has no family to long for. All my maids have somebody in Spain, and none of them is likely to go. Maria and Rosa are crying all the time, begging me to allow them to stay in Sevilla. I am tired of it. The others are not so clever, and this child is not only clever and obedient, she is also willing to go. I have no one to rely on since Catalina died."  
  
He looked at me again with concern and distrust, but didn't protest anymore. Two days after we set out for Jerez de la Frontera and then to Cadiz, and we boarded on Joya del Mar, and there wasn't time for him to bother about me. Since our first ecounter I am doing my best to avoid don Diego; I doubt he is suspecting anything, for it takes some courage to imagine one's wife having an affair with a woman, but anyway I am trying to make him forget about me. It's rather difficult, though, because now as we are on Joya del Mar, I sometimes feel his look on me; he's wondering how I am managing, and there is a strange sympathy in his eyes. He must have been assuming that being a shy girl I'm afraid of him and he's trying not to scare me away, pretending he doesn't care about me and never speaking to me directly. He is seeing me mostly when I'm in his wife's company.  
  
She is enjoying this little game of ours. She's polite to me, when others can see us, and she does not hide her fondness for me, yet she is treating me with some sort of contempt and is pleased to see me running to and fro with her orders. She likes to have me fan her when she is resting on the main deck and to have me standing behind her chair while she is eating. She doesn't look at me directly when there is somebody around, but she feels contended knowing that she has me by her side, and she delights in such small things like a touch of our fingers or a brush of our knees, and sometimes, when I am sitting behind her, she leans backwards a little in order to feel my breath on her neck.  
  
Oh, that creamy neck of hers. She's not a young woman anymore, but that large and gloomy house in the old Triana quarter has preserved her beauty well. She has some wrinkles by her dark round eyes, but how bright and deep they are! Her lips are dry and hot, but it's only me who knows about it, and she makes me shiver when she presses them to mine; there's more heat and passion in them than in any wet kiss of a young girl's full lips. Her skin is fair and has a pearly pink shade. She's not Andalusian, being born in Toledo, and that's why she's not dark; but she has a sweet aroma of the South, and when she presses her white body to mine, I am wrapped in a cinnamon and vanilla scent.  
  
Or is it the aroma of our bliss? For it's cinnamon and vanilla that I add every morning to our cocoa - it's the only meal I share with my lady. We're switching cups and drinking after each one's trace of lips, chuckling quietly, recalling joys of the past night, while the sea breeze enters into our cabin and begins playing with black laces in dona Ursula's hair. We don't have much to do on Joya del Mar. After the breakfast we either go upstairs to look at the ocean, or stay in the cabin to read and play.  
  
She's impressed that I can read, but a little bit amused at my accent and vocabulary. I am not Spanish, and it were Spanish Jews of the Mediterranean that I was learning the language from, so I'm often confusing Spanish with ladino, using "la noche la esta" instead of "esta noche" or "hizha" and "muzher" instead of "hija" and "mujer", therefore causing dona Ursula's laughing fits. She is trying to correct my Spanish, so we're reading. And, happily for us, there wasn't enough space to take many books, so dona Ursula has only her favourites here. No moral works, no sermons. She loves frivolous and adventurous books, therefore we read "El Buscon", "Lazarillo de Tormes", "Guzman de Alfarache" and "El diablo cojuelo", but above all the immortal "Celestina", which dona Ursula knows by heart and of which she makes her own sermons. She says with a sad smile that "a long being together weakens passion, dulls pain, destroys delight and accustoms to miracles", and advises me to keep secrets - "when you tell somebody your secret, you become his slave" - and I gladly agree with the last, but not with the former. Sometimes we play and sing; she knows theatre songs and her taste for the low shows out again, for she loves jacaras, in which "the living rejoice as the dead rot", and it's pretty odd to hear "the various demands of fortune and pure blood never go along" from the daughter of the Toledo nobleman. She plays vihuela well, too, but is very eager to learn new things, and I introduce her to Sephardic romances and teach her how to play lute. Her dark eyes are cruel yet so tenderly concerned, when she's singing a ballad about the Face-of-a-Rose, who poisons her lover, and I'm a little bit scared, so then we switch to "Como ha de saber Belilla", which states that "a mere object of desire is not truly desirable", and it's her turn to look at me with suspicion. And then we laugh.  
  
I am living in paradise when my lady is close and in purgatory when she is away from me. We're the only women on board, and seeing that dona Ursula de Ayala is a noblewoman, I am the one that the crew and merchants going to Santo Domingo can lust after. I'm not particularly bothered by the solid tradesmen selling textiles and furniture to Spanish noblemen in colonies; they don't want trouble and all they do is trying to pinch me in the dark corridors of Joya del Mar. But sailors, oh Holy Virgin, are they a nuisance!  
  
I've heard them making greasy comments about me thousands of times, it seems. They never let me pass without saying anything, for they're annoyed beyond belief that I've not chosen some of them for my lover. They're so hungry and desperate after all those lonely nights at sea, with no better friend than their own hand, that now they hate me with a passion too fierce not to be turned easily into love - were I so generous as to pick up one of them, he would be at my feet. But I know better than that. I am my mistress' lover and servant and I belong to her alone.  
  
I've heard them say: "Well, she's not the prettiest one I've ever seen, but she's got that smile from the Devil himself. She's no good and looks like an easy one, she's just playing coy with us. I'd bet she doesn't let a man take a breath in bed. I'd have her forget this smirk of hers after I'm done with her. I'd wipe it off her innocent little face with my own cock. What is she thinking about when she's casting her eyes down like a bloody nun? I've never seen her praying! It's because she's showing us what long eyelashes she has. By God, I'd swear she's a marrana, with those lashes and dark eyes, and I've heard her singing Jewish songs, man. Oh, I'd like to see her twat, I'd bet she has it cut the other way than Christian women have."  
  
Well, you poor dumb moron, I can swear you'll never see it.   
  
They can't stand me being around, they become restless, moved by some ridiculous spell that sets them to leap, run after me, show me funny things with their hands, pant, huff, drool, roar, and God knows what else, seemingly using the head down their waist and not the one on their shoulders to think. I'd be delighted to punch some of them in the stomach or kick them, no, not in the ankle, but between legs, but I'm a little bit afraid they'd set a trap for me and try to find out if I'm a Christian or a Jewess. All I can do is to clench my teeth, elude and run away from them, and pray for scurvy for them and a good wind for the sails.  
  
The wind is good, weather is splendid as for now, and we're sitting on the main deck near the mizzenmast, dona Ursula reading and me holding an umbrella over her. Don Diego is standing not very far from us, but thank God, he's not looking at me: he's narrowing his eyes, trying to see something in front of us. I follow his gaze.  
  
There's a ship, and not so far away, but it's still difficult to see its colors. It's the first time we ecounter other vessel, so the gobs are gathering to look at it. It seems to be pretty slow, and the captain, senor de Paz, standing next to don Diego, aims his telescope at it and begins to study it.  
  
"What is it, Captain?" asks don Diego.  
  
"Well, it seems it's a Portuguese barquentine. Rather slow. I wonder if they want something from us... but I don't think so."  
  
"Are they noticing us already?"  
  
"Yes, senor, I think they are. It's a piece of luck to run into a Portuguese ship and not a British one, may God and the Holy Virgin curse those heretics."  
  
"What is it, Paquita?" dona Ursula asks me.  
  
"A Portuguese bar... ship, senora," I say.  
  
"Will we be meeting them?"  
  
"Maybe, but the Captain is not sure."  
  
Dona Ursula goes back to "Guzman", and I'm trying to stay away from a stupid gob with a thin beard; I'd bet he's a French disease. There's no way I'd allow him to touch me. I wouldn't touch him with a stick myself.  
  
The wind changes and becomes a little bit chilly, and dona Ursula orders me to bring her a velvet mantilla, so I'm going downstairs. It's somewhat difficult to find the mantilla; it's been a beautiful weather all these days and dona Ursula didn't have to wear anything over her dress. I'm beginning to swear, looking for the damned thing everywhere, when I hear sudden cries and shouts. The ship around me is resounding of gobs' hurrying steps. What happened?  
  
I look out of the cabin. The crew is running around and somebody pushes me back screaming:  
  
"Go back, Paquita! Pirates are on us!"  
  
Pirates? I don't understand. Where did pirates come from? That little Portuguese barquentine, trailing along us? They were following us, pretending to be some slow merchant ship like us, displaying a friendly color of the Catholic Kingdom of Portugal, and now they descended upon us like a hawk on a mouse! I feel my feet rooted to the floor for a moment. Is there any chance we would stand against them? I doubt that, looking at the pale faces around me, faces with trembling jaws, faces filled with despair. They don't know how to fight, good Captain de Paz doesn't look like a soldier to me, neither do his men or the merchants. The only one who could do anything is, probably, don Diego, but his lone sword doesn't count against a bunch of criminals skilled in their deadly trade. Whatever our fate is going to be, I must bring dona Ursula here.  
  
I run upstairs, using my elbows and knees to make way amongst the gobs. It's unbelievable how swiftly the pirates took us over. They are already on Joya del Mar, and we didn't have time enough to fire at them. I am cursing my long skirt, trying to get to the rear and find my lover. It seems the fight is going under the mainmast, and it's not a particularly fierce one, the gobs surrendering on their knees with their trembling hands in the air. So much for their manly pride. I try to pass away unnoticed, as always, and I see dona Ursula standing like the Lot's wife, unmoving, paralized with horror. Oh, you shouldn't stand like that, you should squat down... my God, I must get to her.  
  
I am delving under the men's elbows, advancing to her, and she sees me, a childish relief on her face. She rushes to me, I run to her, then she stumbles suddenly and falls into my arms. I hold her tightly, I rock her gently, we sit down.  
  
"Let's go downstairs," I say, "there is no danger to you. You are a noble lady, they won't hurt you or don Diego, just take you for ransom. Let's go downstairs."  
  
But she does not move, she shivers slightly and nothing more. Her body is becoming heavy on my lap and as I look into her eyes I see they are full of the mist of death, their brightness gone away. She doesn't see me, she doesn't hear me, she is no more with me. Her blood is soaking through my dress, and as I lay her down I can see that her half-open mouth is full of blood too, blood glitters between her sharp little teeth. How is that she has so much blood in her, I wonder while looking at her, and she becomes so small as if she were melting into a red pool under my knees. I am trying to open her dress, but to no avail, its buttons are slippery and wet. She was shot by some stray bullet when running to me, and she was dead before I touched her.  
  
I hear don Diego's cry behind me, and other voices of horror and dismay raise, but nobody comes here to me, I am kneeling alone over senora Ayala's dead body. I turn over only to see that I am the only one from Joya del Mar who is unbound, and dona Ursula is the only one dead; the fight is over and our crew is held around the mizzenmast, rounded by their captors. I don't see our Captain here, however, maybe he is dead too.  
  
And then it dawns upon me that I am the only woman here now, and everybody can see it. But it's too late, and before I manage to stand up and flee, I am roughly brought on my feet by a pair of strong hands. Yes, it's too late, but anyway I start to fight. Oh no, God, no, please!... For if there was ever anyone trapped in this world, it's me.  
  
I didn't know what it means to be in hands of men who are starving for a mere touch of a woman's flesh. There are only up to thirty pirates on board, but as they run to me without a word, I feel as if I were among three hundreds. Everybody wants to grab me, to pinch me, to slap me, all this in an almost complete silence. They are shoving each other off, and as everybody wants his share, they are a step from a fight. My bonnet that I hated so much is gone, my white breastkerchief is gone, and hands that can't be counted are going to strip me from my dress.  
  
Hopeless as it is, I am fighting them. There is nothing I can save, I am going to die anyway, the only thing I want now is a swift death. I look over at Joya del Mar's crew, and I see a wild anticipation in the faces of most of them. Oh yes, they hated me because couldn't have me, now they like to see me punished. I feel a heavy scent of a reluctant arousal around them, and I hate them even more than I hate these poor fellows trying to rip my dress off. I am fighting... or I was, for it's too short a resistance to be ever called a fight. The solidarity of the brethren is restored once more by my futile attempts to resist, some of them step aside, and while a big bloke with a broken nose backhands me, his chum with a face distorted by smallpox grabs my hair so painfully that tears blind me for a moment. Then two others hold my hands, and one wraps his arms around my knees so that I can't kick. And I hear sudden leers and cheers from Joya del Mar's crew; they're happy, because they've just got a small gift from their dirty heaven - a play for them is going to begin. Anyway I try to anger them, I'm wriggling, writhing, squirming like an eel, and as I'm all slippery from dona Ursula's blood, they have a hell of keeping me in place. The Broken Nose slaps me again and again; The Smallpox is improving his grip on my hair so I can't move my head, my ear is ringing and I'm feeling dizzy.  
  
None of us hears a man who is advancing towards us and shouting something, and only when he roughly shoves off pirates standing on his way, the men holding me turn their heads to him. Their grips ease a little bit, so I immediately start to fight again. The Broken Nose raises his hand to hit me, but the man catches that hand without even looking at him.  
  
"I gave ye an order, dogs," he says coldly in English. "Stop that mess, we've got a work to do."  
  
"We've found a girl, sir," says The Broken Nose sheepishly.  
  
"Aye, I can see that. Ye heard me or not?"  
  
"But sir, begging your pardon, boys'd like to play a little."  
  
"Ye call it a play? You're damaging your little toy. Would you enjoy her more with bruises all over her face?"  
  
"She can't be tamed otherwise, sir."  
  
I hold my breath looking at this man. He's their Captain, then. He's tall and the big hat with a broad brim and feathers adds to his height, so that his men look funny and small compared with him. I can feel his gaze, examining me bluntly; his eyes narrow a little as if he found me amusing, but it isn't me really that he's thinking of, it's the unexpected that I bring and that must be dealt with. I look at him pleadingly, but his eyes refuse to answer, he's calculating, writing me down in his account book. There's no pity in him for me then, it was just a statement that there is a more proper way to handle me than that. I grind my teeth and make a good use of his half-hearted generosity, hitting The Smallpox's stomach with my elbow.  
  
"Ouch, you dirty little whore," he says, looking at his Captain for permission to slap me. "He's right, sir, she needs a lesson. You show her a finger an' she wants a whole fist."  
  
The Joya del Mar gobs are alarmed; they want to watch their play, to see me panting and moaning under these pirates, and those who know English start to encourage them rather friendly.  
  
"That was what we're always saying," breaks in one of them. "This wench is no good, but always puttin' her nose high."  
  
"Yea, tryin' to flirt with the entire ship, playin' with us."  
  
"A lot of good men lost their souls to her, I'd bet."  
  
The pirate captain stares at them, startled, and in the moment he takes his eyes off his men, The Smallpox swiftly takes his knife and in one graceful move cuts my dress open to the waist, and opens my shirt hungrily. Then he stretches his hands to grasp my breasts with a triumphant yell, "Well, let's have some of this at least, mateys!", and then he almost falls on me, losing his balance. His "mateys" gasp, their captain turns over and the Joya del Mar's crew crane their necks.  
  
Now I am the only person here who is not surprised that I don't, in fact, have breasts.  
  
"C... Cap... Capt'n..." stutters The Smallpox.  
  
"She hasn't got no breasts, Capt'n!" complains my Knee-Holder, like a spoiled child running back to his mother.  
  
"Of course she hasn't, yer dumbhead," says The Broken Nose. "Can't ye see it's a lad?"  
  
"Oh, my God," says don Diego de Ayala. "Oh, my God, what is this?"  
  
He is looking at his wife's dead body, he's asking her and begging her, but dona Ursula is not going to answer, her lips dryer than ever, her upper lip twisted in a cruel, blood-smeared smile under the merciless sun. And then we hear a short, amused laugh.  
  
"Well, well, well," says the pirate captain, "we've got some Shakespeare here, I see. My sympathies, senor. Oh, ye don't believe me, but who I am to blame ye? After all, we're all deceived just like ye."  
  
I can feel the depth of don Diego's helpless, bottomless despair, but why I don't feel pity for the man who's just lost his wife twice? He's lost her already before and it's not my fault. I don't even know if he's lamenting the loss of dona Ursula herself, or the loss of so-called "honour", which dona Ursula was supposed to keep for him. And I am answered rather quickly, when he says to the captain:  
  
"I am certain you are a man of honour. I have lost everything today, and I have only one favour to ask of you."  
  
The captain smiles a merciless smile.  
  
"I'd be happy to oblige, but not before I know yer name, senor."  
  
But don Diego is not that stupid, he knows the game. He is safe as long as the captain doesn't know his name and therefore his status. It can be guessed easily that he's from a good family, but he'd rather not have the captain to know he's an Ayala with a Santo Domingo estate. He's hesitating, maybe thinking if he shouldn't give his wife's name instead of his, so that the ransom would be smaller.  
  
"I would rather know if you'd be so kind as to grant me the favour."  
  
"And what would that favour be?"  
  
"I would ask you to untie me and let me kill him." He points at me.  
  
But the pirate captain laughs politely, looking at him with a really amused look, like at somebody who doesn't understand where he is. His green eyes are devilishly bright, but he tries to hide that brightness, looking down with a half-indulgent, half-hypocritical smile.  
  
"I'm afraid I must say no," he says, "for ye seem to hold a strange opinion of me sense of honour being of the same provenience as yours. A humble pirate as I am, I cannot agree that allowing ye a sword in yer hand would be a wise idea... yer going to kill him with a sword, right? Otherwise I gladly would... hah... acquiesce to your request. If ye'd like to hang him on the yardarm, I'd provide a rope, but ye must act as a hangman. Or ye can drown him - don't need any particular tools for that, an' it's a quick one, doesn't require much effort. On the other side, if ye want to taste your vengeance properly, ye can beat him to death, but it's a time-consumin' thing, seeing that ye'd have to do it with yer bare hands. So, what would it be?"  
  
"You really don't have to mock me, sir," says don Diego quietly. "I've been mocked enough, only that I don't know if it's by heaven or by hell. I don't desire much, only a single thrust of a sword. Your men can have me on their swordspoints, if that would assure you."  
  
"Ah, well, I see I should be open with you. I understand your grief... in a way, but lemme tell you that there's one more thing to consider, namely that this maid of yours owes somethin' to my men, too."  
  
"What do you mean, Captain?"  
  
"Well, he's deceived not only ye and yer entire honourable crew," he says with a glance at the gobs, and I can clearly see they are less than vermin to him, "but also the crew o' mine. Has a long list of creditors to pay, you see. Killin' him is out of the question, senor... oh, pardon me, I still don't know yer name."  
  
There's a certain note of threat in his voice and don Diego seems to be clever enough to notice it and not to press the matter.  
  
"I will most surely give you it, sir," he says quietly. "But I'd rather know at least who my wife's lover is, so that I can repay him some day. Sadly enough, he is not in my power, but thank God, he's in yours."  
  
He's very, very careful, and tries to play his cards well, being polite with the captain - who smiles again, looking at him with hardly suppressed amusement.  
  
"Ye want me to be an investigator for ye, right?"  
  
"No, sir. It's just that I think he should answer your questions and he wouldn't answer mine, for I don't have any power over him anymore. I give you my word of honour I will tell you my name if I can have his."  
  
"Well, it be a good bargain," the captain says.  
  
I don't understand this pirate's game... or wait, maybe I do. I look over at my dona Ursula's body; she is lying uncovered under the sun, utterly forgotten... her death accepted and maybe already forgiven. It's not the pirates who took over Joya del Mar, who are responsible for the bullet that ended dona Ursula's life, it's not them - it's me who is the villain, it's me who'll have to pay. Senor Ayala and the pirate captain are now on the same side, united against me and eager to punish me for our little love play. What kind of justice is that?  
  
But I can't even allow myself to argue and defend. My case is lost already. Even if I were not to be killed soon, and just put in the brig with the others, I'd be dead anyway. Those gobs hate me now with a passion I've never felt. I am their living shame that must be wiped away, I am a threat to their pathetic manhoods. Don Diego wants me dead. And the pirates hate me too, if only for the disappointment.  
  
Ah... there is only one straw I can hold to. The pirate captain.  
  
He turns to me now, and I am strained as never in my life, determined to do everything this man wants from me, to be somebody worth sparing in his eyes. Green eyes. Green, bright, devilish eyes.  
  
"Well," he says, "Let's start from yer name, then. Not your maid one. Yer real one. Ye sure have a name, right?"  
  
"My name's Ritchie Brown," I say.  
  
"Oh, good. We have a name. Oh, I see, senor... he's a British. Why, that's really nasty. Or wait, maybe yer not British?"  
  
"Well..." I hesitate, for it's a little bit complicated for me too. "I am neither British nor Sp..."  
  
"That's enough, it's not yer execution yet," he cuts carelessly, but I see a flash of interest in his green eyes. "No time for long stories. Now tell us, who's idea was all this?"  
  
All eyes go to the poor dona Ursula's corpse. But I'll not have it. She is not to be blamed. She is the only woman here now.  
  
"'Twas mine," I say. "I thought it'd be the only way to be together that long. She was afraid of the journey, so I wanted to cheer her up."  
  
He's laughing.  
  
"What a touchin' story," he says. "And how old are you, lad, pray tell us?"  
  
"I'm fifteen, sir."  
  
"Do excuse me, senor, but how old was yer wife?"  
  
"She was thirty-four," he lies. Oh, my God. He loved her, he did.  
  
The pirate captain draws a little bit closer to me, with a strange expression in his eyes. I barely can move, but I am bracing myself against the blow. He doesn't hit me, though.  
  
"Ye have to be a whole hell more experienced than that, Ritchie," he says, "before you try to lie to me. Never ever lie to me, and especially not when tryin' to save yer life. Is that clear to ye?"  
  
"Yes." Well, bloody hell. What I am to say?  
  
"Good. Yer fifteen, she's thirty-four, an' it was her idea to take ye with her. Have you any estate? Any money? Any family?"  
  
"No, I haven't."  
  
"Good. Was she payin' you, Ritchie?"  
  
I am silent.  
  
"Ye heard me. Was she payin' you?"  
  
"Yes, she was."  
  
He smiles at me.  
  
"Now, now," he says, "it's jus' an amusin' tale. Yer lady was a formidable woman indeed, she had a man's heart. She bought herself a plaything, that's all. Payin' ye an' usin' ye, she was. By God, yer only a little whore. Are ye not?"  
  
"Well, we can put it that way," I say with a sigh, trying to look embarrassed-and-resigned as hard as I can.  
  
He turns to don Diego.  
  
"Ye see?... A sad thing, bein' jealous of a playin' trifle. An' if it's not helpin' ye, try to think yer family doesn't need to pay yer ransom twice, for ye an' yer wife too, senor Ayala. 'Tis much more reassurin' thought, it is."  
  
Don Diego doesn't understand, he's staring at him like a hen at a broken egg. I'd chuckle if it weren't highly improper for me now.  
  
"Aw, did I mention I know yer name already? Well, ye were lucky having a good wind from Cadiz, but it's a long way to Santo Domingo and my ship is fast. There's time for everythin', for sailin' an' for plunderin' too, as the Bible says. Consider yer lucky, though, ye know at last that yer wife was a lioness, unless ye prefer sheep...'Tis up to ye, but there's somethin' you'd better rejoice o'er an' not lament. Well, that's what me honour says to me. An' ye know lad's name too, as ye wished. Think 'bout it."  
  
Don Diego looks at the captain with a new hope lit in his eyes, then with a dismay, and finally with a humiliated fury.   
  
"You knew my name from the beginning!" he hisses.  
  
"Aye, I did. 'Twas somewhat interestin' watchin' ye wrigglin' with ye precious name in yer clenched fist, senor Ayala. Funny lot, noblemen. Rather predictable, though." Then he adds with a half smile, "ne'er thinkin' of wearing girl's dresses, what a pity." And he turns away with a suddenly grave and cold expression.  
  
Don Diego has to feel mocked and ridiculed, but he doesn't protest in his misery, and lets the pirates lead him to the brig with the merchants and some of Joya del Mar's crew. I'm looking after them; not that I want to be with them, but I am not entirely sure that I'm safe, either, seeing that they seem to have orders to kill people that aren't expected to bring any ransom. And two of them start to rob dona Ursula's corpse of her jewellery, her head bouncing on the deck.  
  
"And yer going with me," The Broken Nose says taking my arm. "Yer going to La Aranha. Captain Barbossa's orders."  
  
"La Aranha?"  
  
"Our ship."  
  
"And what for?"  
  
"How am I t'know, sweetie?"  
  
"I'm not your sweetie."  
  
"Whoa, ya almost became, didn't ya? And ya'd better watch yer tongue, sweetie. 'Specially when ya talk to our captain, that's my advice. Move on."  
  
I wonder how is it all going to end. I'm going along the trap to the board of the pirate ship, holding the sad remains of my dress in both hands. I'm tired, but I've still to be on my guards. The Broken Nose leads me to the captain's cabin doors and says into the dark:  
  
"I've brought him, sir."  
  
I enter the cabin. It's not so dark as it appeared from the outside. Some candles are lit, the curtains are drawn. The Captain is sitting at the table with his legs stretched and he is regarding me with that amused look of his. Strange, but he looks younger now than on Joya del Mar, maybe it's his relaxed smile, but he seems to be no older than thirty four or five. His hair is bound rather loosely, for what I can see, and he's clearly at ease here. He didn't put off his big hat, though, and he's still wearing an elegant brocade cloak - a cloak that must have cost a good fortune; an emerald green one, its cuffs decorated with silver braids and buttons. He doesn't wear a waistcoat, however, but the shirt under the cloak must be made of the finest Holland linen (oh, I learned a lot being dona Ursula's maid). This man can be a pirate, but he knows what he wants. He's like me in that matter, perhaps: will go to any means to obtain what he wants.  
  
He's looking at me for a long, long while. His green eyes are clearly taunting me, my tattered dress and face burning from the beatings and shame. He can't help his thin lips from twitching with derision, but his eyes are cold and counting. I can't bring myself to say anything - I'm beginning to fear him now. I want to know what he is going to do with me, but I understand that even the knowledge wouldn't change a thing. It's better not to know, I think, trying to collect myself. I feel a strange urge to ask him - for what? For mercy? I've already received it, and maybe I wouldn't receive any more. For freedom? And what freedom awaits me here, and where? We are in the middle of the ocean and I don't belong anywhere, neither to the Old World nor to the New One. Well, he spared my life anyway, should I be afraid of him?  
  
The Broken Nose appears again, holding something on his arm.  
  
"Here it is, sir," he says. "The scarlet one, as you ordered. His lady had a pretty one."  
  
And he goes away, leaving one of the most expensive dresses of dona Ursula on the table. It's thick, rich and heavy, I've never seen her wearing this dress.  
  
"Yer to wear this one today, Ritchie," the Captain says.  
  
I feel dizzy and almost on the verge of tears. What's that new idea? Why I am to wear a dress again? I'm not a girl, can't he see?  
  
"What's wrong? Ashamed? Ye see that screen. Change yer clothes behind it."  
  
"I don't want to wear dresses anymore, Captain," I say, and there's no defiance in my voice. I feel like begging now.  
  
"Did anyone ask ye what ye want? Don't remember that."  
  
"But why have I to wear that?"  
  
"Yer dress is all bloody, and it's already beginning to smell. Ye need to change."  
  
"But why have I to wear A DRESS, Captain? Can't I have men's clothes?"  
  
"D'ye really need to be forced to obey? Yer a clever boy, an' in no position to ask questions, let alone to demand anything. An' ye seem to forget that ye still owe me crew a favor. They feel deceived, poor devils, and they're very bitter about that. Make haste. Ye have water in that basin over there too."  
  
Very well. I won't beg. Let's see what he has in store for me. I'm dead anyway, and I was stupid to think that the pirate captain would show me any pity at all. What did he do for me, indeed? Don Diego was bound and unarmed, and the pirates... At least those gobs from Joya del Mar aren't watching. I change my servant dress, ragged and stiff from dona Ursula's blood, into her scarlet dress. I can suddenly feel sweet scent of my lady all around me, cinnamon and vanilla, like her hand on my neck and shoulders; but the dress is so heavy it seems to press me down, holding my arms and hips and waist tightly. I look in the cloudy mirror that's hung near by: the dress fits nicely, damn it, it's difficult to breathe in these thick velvety folds. And a girl I see in me now is somewhat different from dona Ursula's maid, a timid, modest creature hidden under a greyish garment and a white flat bonnet. Now I am wrapped in a soft scarlet drapery, my hair is loose, my neck and forearms are bare and freshly bruised - there is a bruise in the corner of my mouth too. I have a look of a port harlot, a little bit fatigued and beaten, but still being fit for a round or two. I don't know if it's for good or for bad, if I should curse or bless the pirates for not giving me a black eye, but anyway I walk from behind the screen with my chin up.  
  
He is no longer sitting by the table, he's watching his men, standing in the cabin doors; he stops me before I walk to my chair, then goes to me. I'm shrinking inside, having him so near, and I'd like to step back, but it's not safe to move in the long dress. He's slowly sliding his look down my neck, chest, hips and legs, and then back again to my face.  
  
"Oh, maid or not, it suits you," he chuckles, and then draws even closer, narrowing his eyes. I hold my breath watching him to raise his hand - but he stops halfway before touching the bruise on my cheek.  
  
"They've really manhandled ye, Ritchie," he says. "Bruises, what a pity." There is a mockery concern in his voice. "Rough fellows, pirates. Be careful with 'em."  
  
I smile a little.  
  
"Alright," he says. "Sit down."  
  
I sit at the opposite end of the table covered with an embroidered tablecloth. Or is it a tablecloth? The scent is somewhat familiar; I lower my head and try to sniff it discreetly. Is it incense?... I can't recognize patterns on the folds that touch my knees, it's too dark in here, candles...  
  
"It's an altar cloth!" I exclaim before I can think. "You're using it here?"  
  
He bursts out laughing.  
  
"An' why not? They're not very valuable, so I decided to keep one to myself. Adds some nice flavour to me dwellin'."  
  
"Are you not afraid to do that, Captain? It's a... a... sacrilege, isn't it?"  
  
"Aye, that's the word. But it's only a piece of cloth, after all. There's nothin' wrong in tradin' it an' usin' it anyway. Compared to sleepin' with a man's wife under his very nose an' seducin' ev'rybody around paradin' in lass' clothes while bein' a lad, well, it's a minor offence."  
  
"But which compared to piracy IS a minor offence." Ouch, I just let it slip.  
  
He looks at me narrowing his eyes and smiling. I have been living on my own for quite a long time, having nobody and nothing to rely on except my experience and instinct in judging people. As the more frequent the mistakes, the lower I'd sink, I've learnt to judge them rather successfully. But there are always those you never know, those with smile on their lips and not in their eyes, those who like to play with you more than they like you, those who are not to be deceived or bribed too easily, those who are much more skilled with judging others than you are. I tend to avoid them, and if I can't, I'm sweet, innocent, polite and naive with them, the more the farther my way of escape is. And I can't see it here. I'm trapped in the middle of the ocean with a bunch of fellows who hate me, and the only man who showed me some kindness is not going to be kind to me anymore. He enjoys playing cat-and-mouse with me, and he's not to be bargained with. He sees me through. I am no one to weigh our sins here, yet he made me to do it. And now he's delighted to see me lower my head.  
  
"How right you are," he says. "But ye see, if I were ye, I'd try to earn yer money in a more respectable way than whoring yerself like that, runnin' around in a woman's garb an', well, almost gettin' killed anyway."  
  
He wants me to answer.  
  
"With all due respect, Captain," I say, "I spent nice two weeks with a Spanish lady. I was eating well, and I was being paid for what you usually would have to pay. And it's true I almost got killed, but that's another story, and if you didn't show yourselves up, I'd be safe and sound and happy with dona Ursula ever after."  
  
"My, my, d'ye think I should apologize to you, lad? It was yerself who is to blame. Ye should've thought of what'd become out of yer daft exploit if it fails. Ye shut yer way out the very moment ye got aboard with yer beloved lady. The sea is dangerous - ye've to mind yer steps or ye'll see that there's no place to get away."  
  
He's bloody right, I think, looking at him. His voice is full of soft concern, as if he was giving advice to his younger brother. He clearly enjoys conversation with me, and I can trace a good accent, sign of a proper upbringing and education that the rough years at sea could not discard. I look at the walls of his cabin and I feel like in the Ayala house, with its bookshelves, curtains, old candlesticks. The cabin's furniture is all black, maybe mahogany. My chair's arms have plump puttos playing with bunch of grapes, and I can even smell the wine... Oh, wait, it's for real - there is a carafe of red wine between us, and the Captain is pouring it. I am half-expecting the bowl to be a chalice, but no, it's not, the altar cape being sole sign of the Captain's contempt for what the world believes to be holy.  
  
"Hope ye'd like to drink some with me. It's been a hard day for ye."  
  
I give him a thankful look and we drink. The wine, however, is not as sweet I expected it to be, it's a little bit tart and the taste stings my tongue. No, I am not in Sevilla anymore and I will never go back again. I am sitting on La Aranha, the pirate ship, at the table covered with an altar cape, wearing a scarlet dress, with the pirate captain looking at me amusingly.  
  
"Yes, it really was, Captain. And this dress is not helping... can I put it off?"  
  
"No."  
  
"But why?"  
  
"Ye look good in it, as I said. And my crew'll be delighted to see you in it."  
  
What?!  
  
"Why are they going to see me in it?"  
  
He sighs, stands up and walks slowly to the window, as if to gather his thoughts. Then he speaks again, his voice persuasive and calm, sure that I'll understand him.  
  
"Ye see, they deserve a satisfaction from ye, Ritchie. Ye deceived them. And they're hardworking fellows, with nothin' to look forward, just some little reward. They were hopin' dearly for somethin' an' got sadly disappointed. I feel sorry for 'em." He pauses, looking at me seriously. "It's still some time to the nearest settlement an' it's not a safe thing to have over thirty unsated an' disappointed men on board, ye see. Yer young an' comely, an' look really sweet in this dress. I think they won't mind that yer a lad an' will happily pretend they're havin' a lass. Well, that ne'er be a problem between pirates anyway, but this dress adds somethin' to the fun."  
  
He doesn't laugh at me and he's not trying to scare me, he's explaining things to me so matter-of-factly that it's impossible not to agree with him. Were I just watching the scene, I would agree, sure, but it's my life and my body he's talking about. I am not a bloody tool to be used just because Joya del Mar run onto a pirate ship. And why is it that he's not holding anything against me, that I can feel he took a certain liking to me, but at the same time he's going to sacrifice me without second thought?  
  
I look at him, trying to figure out a little hook, anything I can cling to in order to save myself from the ordeal he's already set for me.   
  
"Can I have more wine, please?"  
  
He pours the wine.  
  
"Maybe ye should eat somethin', too," he says.  
  
"No, I'm not hungry, Captain."  
  
"Alright. But if so, yer not goin' to have more wine than that. We need ye sober and conscious, ye see."  
  
"But Captain," I say in a whisper, "there must be other way I can repay you."  
  
"Yer not repayin' me. It's my crew that needs repayin'."  
  
"So I don't owe you anything, Captain?"  
  
"No, ye owe me nothin'." He smiles at me openly, wrapping his hands around the bowl. He has big hands, but his fingers are long and sharply ended. He's no commoner, maybe much better than don Diego and his wife. Maybe his piratey way of talking is only assumed to hide something. I try to read tangled letters on his golden sygnet, but he's sitting too far and I can't decipher them... and maybe it's not a safe thing to do. I look at his face again - he's observing me like a cat is observing a goldfish.  
  
I feel metallic taste in my mouth - I didn't even notice that I placed my elbows on the table and started to gnaw my fingers. Ouch. What can I do to convince this man that I am worth sparing? Is there anything I possess and he would like to have?  
  
"Captain," I say, "it's you who gives orders here. Please, don't send me to them, and I will do anything you want."  
  
"Hah... and what d'ye mean by that?"  
  
"Whatever you want me to," I say looking him in the eyes. "I don't have much to offer."  
  
"Ye must have somethin' to offer, Ritchie, if yer offer is to be considered."  
  
"But even this dress is yours, Captain."  
  
"Amuse me, then. What it is that ye have to offer me?"  
  
"What do you think it is? I don't have much more than my body... and soul, if you'd like it."  
  
He laughs quietly.  
  
"An' what makes you think I'd want either of them?"  
  
"There's nothing more I have in stock. It's the only offer I can make. And there are people who considered it to be of value... so I thought it's something I can sell now."  
  
"Aw, but d'ye know what? It's not only the dress that I have now. Yer on my ship, body an' soul, an' yer tellin' me yer free to sell yerself away, an' to no other than me. Who are ye tryin' to fool, smart-arse?"  
  
No, he's not angry, he's truly amused. But it doesn't help me a bit.   
  
"It's true you have that power over me, Captain. You can force me to do anything you like, but it'll still be of no value compared to what you can do with me when I am willing."  
  
"That may be. But yer a lil' bit too confident for such an easy lay. An' I don't share my bed with ev'ry little whore that happens to cross my way. Jus' tell me, are ye always that willing in tradin' yerself?"  
  
"I want to live, Captain." Oh yes, I can be shameless when I want to live.  
  
"An' why d'ye think yer life's in danger?"  
  
"Why, there are over thirty of them! Is there any chance I'll survive?"  
  
"Ever slept with a man, then?"  
  
I hesitate. Hm...  
  
"No."  
  
Bad choice. Even the ever-present smirk in his eyes is gone.  
  
"Yer no worth showin' any mercy, Ritchie. Told ye not to lie to me, an' what's that yer doin'? Why am I to spare yer life, when ye don't value it yerself? If ye didn't sleep with a man, how can ye know if yer goin' to survive thirty of 'em or not? An' what made ye think it'd better to say ye didn't do it? Hah... d'ye think it makes ye special to me, perhaps?... Ye can't even tell the truth to save yer neck."  
  
I bit my lip while he turns away from me and goes to look outside. There's nothing I can say. He's not going to spare me anyway. Or wait, is that because he wants to see what they will do to me? Is that because he likes to watch? Is that because he likes to see pain and humiliation and despair, regardless of who's going to suffer? For there's no doubt he doesn't have anything against me, he actually likes me. I can't feel any hate in his voice, not even disdain that he showed when talking with don Diego, yet it's clear that any feeling of pity is entirely foreign for him. And I'm beginning to feel strangely attracted by this man, whose cruelty is so naturally fetching, so becoming him. I'm wondering what one can do to win his fondness or sympathy or admiration - for there is a place for all of them in this man's soul, and his warm indifference is a gate to it. I lean my head on my hands and look at his back, when he's standing at the window, the light of the sunset embracing him. What will he do, when his men will be done with me? Will he have me shot before I'll be thrown overboard or he'll not have even to bother, for I'll be dead anyway? Will he help himself to me too or will he just watch? Well, he's not that overly practical after all, he's sacrificing such a fine dress too. Oh, I am tired, so tired I can't even feel anger or hatred for the Captain, as if I adopted unwillingly some of his pragmatic way of thinking. It's my own fault and it's me who is to blame, and there's nothing I can do. Should I throw myself into the ocean rather than... aw, Ritchie, don't be stupid. Maybe you will survive. Maybe you will find a way out.   
  
If I only weren't that tired... And when the Captain turns to me again, showing me with a gesture that there's time to go, I feel somewhat relieved to think that all is to be over soon.  
  
We walk to the main deck, for it is - as the Captain tells me - a time for the crew to eat something. Oh, I'm sure his men must be bloody starving, after such a busy and fruitful day. Am I to be their dessert then? The sun is setting, the deck must be warm. I am reminded anew what a girl's dress means, for I feel bound and subdued as before, when I was running through Joya del Mar's corridors, avoiding men's rude caresses, cursing the long skirt constraining my moves. And now I am hardly walking, out of tiredness or out of fear, I don't know, but after a few steps my body recalls its past experience and I am able to make it.  
  
The pirates are sitting here and there, eating, well, probably our Joya del Mar's freshly slayed lamb or something... or did they have their own livestock? Whatever, I can't think of meat now. I can't think of food. I can't think. I am going to bloody throw up.   
  
I try to look at them stealthily. In the reddish and golden light of the sunset they appear to me like fantastical creatures that are carved in the pillars and arcades of old churches - creatures living on the borderland of Christendom. Big, burly, oddly shaped, with all kinds of past injuries on their heads, hands, shoulders. A fellow with a hole above his left temple and his chum with a purple carbuncle on his bald head. A fellow with two fingers cut off so deep that his left hand is twisted and looks like a child's. A fellow with his face rounded by red eczema that looks like a mock diadem - it's Venera's crown, a syphilis sign. If he touches me I'm as good as dead anyway. Oh, there is The Smallpox too, and The Broken Nose, and all those brave men that were holding me on Joya del Mar. But they are dressed in clothes that must've been expensive before they became ragged, and it's obvious that La Aranha's crew is successful in going on account. Despite their injuries, their ilnesses, their tattered clothes, the Captain's men are tough and rather well-fed, and as far as I can see, their bodies are strong and inured - too much for my liking now.   
  
They make way for us and the Captain pushes me among them.  
  
"Sit down," he orders.  
  
I sit.  
  
"Gents, he's going to dine with you now. Bring him something to eat."  
  
Did I mention I am not hungry? Oh well...  
  
They cease eating, I can see that much, although I'm trying not to look up. They are like spellbound, watching me, and I am sitting in the middle. The Captain is sitting on a chair they brought for him, near the cabin's entrance. Suddenly it becomes so quiet, and I know they are looking at me. You all hate me, don't you? I am not a maid, yes, and I was cheating, but not on you; why should you all show up here and take it as a personal insult?  
  
But there is still silence, they went back to eating. Somebody stuck a plate in my hand and I'm expected to eat. I can't, I'd rather have some wine; I hear the Captain ordering it to be brought. If they give me some, I'm sure I can bear much more than when sober.   
  
And my silent prayer is heard, because a tankard is placed before me; and as my body is thinking for me now and not my head, it's empty in no time. Now I feel better. Now I feel like I'm going to sleep at last. Why, they can't hurt me, for I will be asleep soon. Just give me another one and I am far away. My head is spinning and my eyes closing, and I feel a heat on my face. It's bloody hot today. I wonder what's becoming with dona Ursula's corpse. My dress was beginning to smell already, what's going on with her lovely body now? Is vanilla and cinnamon still present somewhere around that sweet, keen smell of decay? Am I going to join my lady too?  
  
I look up at the Captain's face. He's watching me, I can see, and is there interest and concern in these bright green eyes, or... aw, whatever. I need another drink, I'm more thirsty than tired. I can't see clear, my eyes are widening; I feel feverish and my lips are dry, so that I lick them looking around for more wine. But nobody is going to give it to me: they are staring at me.  
  
I hear the quiet "tink" of a hard-tack dropped onto a plate, and The Smallpox is the first to break the silence.  
  
"Sir," he says, his voice trembling, "we're not that hungry now, or we're hungry, but for the other thing. Ye said that lad here owes us somethin', and I think there's a good moment for it now."  
  
"Aye, he owes ye a thing or two. But remember, no brawlings."  
  
"No brawlings, yessir."  
  
"Ye have 'im here."  
  
I raise my suddenly sober head to look at the Captain, who's watching me, his face no more amused, but concentrated and severe. And I am counting them in panic. More than thirty men. More than thirty starving, wild, brutal men who must be left sated and satisfied after long weeks on sea with Lady Death looking straight into their eyes. And they are waiting for one of them to make the first move... are they ashamed to do it before their Captain's eyes? They are watching each other warily and there's threat in every one pair of eyes here. They are afraid that somebody will have it more and better, for the first is the winner in this game. And luckily the Captain's presence is reminding them that there'll be no fights. Oh, then there is hope.  
  
I stand up (it's a little bit hard for me now, though).  
  
"Listen, mateys," I say, "seeing that it's going to take a long time, I've to say something... There's no way for me to be of service to all of you. Not that I'd like to be, but as I've no choice... well, that's another story, but... you'd better draw lots."  
  
"Are ye daft?" says The Broken Nose from his corner. "What lots?"  
  
"Lots. Like in a village lottery. To settle the order. You know what I'm talking about. Which one is going to be first and second and third and so on. Up to sixth."  
  
"Sixth?! Can't ye count or what? There's thirty four o' us."  
  
"Thirty four? There could be three hundred and four for all I know, man. I'm not going to endure more than six of you. I've never done it before."  
  
"Are ye a virgin, ye mean?"  
  
"Whatever you call it." Well, it didn't work with the clever one, let's see if it works with his dumb men. "Anyway I'll be dead at sixth... or seventh. Let's say at tenth, even. So I don't really give a damn for the rest. And..." my voice trails off for a moment, but I still have some strength left, "if some of you'd want more than one round, forget about it."  
  
"An' why we have to listen to ye?" asks The Smallpox defiantly. "Some o' us can have their fun now and some can have it after, that's all."  
  
"You have to draw lots anyway, mate. How are you to establish who's going to have it now and who's going to have it after? Well, that's not my piece of bread, but those who's going to play after will have to wait, or make out with a cold meat. So if you want to have some decent fuck, you'd better draw lots."  
  
They are staring at me and start to murmur.  
  
"And you'd better bloody shut up..." begins some poor bugger hidden behind, but I have most of them already on my side... so to say.  
  
"He's right, boys, we'd better draw lots."  
  
"Lots? Oy, the coin-throwing's better!"  
  
"Shut yer stinkin' jaw, you! I ain't throwing no coins around you!"  
  
"So how many of us is he going to take, mateys?"  
  
"Like six?"  
  
"Nah, he's bloody lying. I've had a lass once, she was, like, she had eight at a time, an' she was, like, goin' to take another one..."  
  
"That's a bilge, mate, 'cause he's no lass, can't ye see that?"  
  
Some of them stand up, and they're recalling all the pathetic stories from their past or born straight from their drunken, lonely dreams. Some start to throw coins, and some are forgetting about their captain and going to have a fight. I'm barely standing, but proud, for I've succeeded in setting them on one another, and there's no better sight than to have your foes die from each other's hands.  
  
As the comrades are arguing over the lottery and as I am looking in panic for some dark corner to hide, someone grabs me from behind and tries to drag me over to the rolled-up ropes. How kind of him, but I don't care if it's the deck or ropes, soft or hard, so I kick him in the ankle (the cursed dress prevents me from aiming higher). He hasn't forgotten me and got a nice idea into his thick skull - that is, to take advantage of his comrades still arguing over the lottery and have me before anybody does. Naturally enough, he lets me go, then tries to hit me, I duck his fist, but then his mate - the one with a hole in his head - grabs me by the wrists. They're going to share me in silence, without calling the others' attention, but I'd rather insist on the lottery idea, so I start to yell:  
  
"Stop it, men, what are you doing?! Wait for the others!"  
  
And now their mates, who saw what's happening, rush to us, and I'm suddenly pushed away - but before I have any time to hide, The Smallpox gets hold of me. The one that grabbed me from behind is cursing and swearing, and... and the blood is dripping from his hand.  
  
He got stabbed. That's bad news for me.  
  
"Who did it, curse ye all!" roars The Broken Nose. "The Captain said, no brawlings, what are ye doin'!"  
  
The fellow with Venera's crown shouts: "'Tis because the bastards can't wait! Wanted to get to the lad behind our backs, man! No surprise he got one!"  
  
"So 'twas ye, right?"  
  
"'m not that addled, man, but they asked fer it! Stealin' him from us, they were!"  
  
"Belay, mate, 'twas yer fault. We haven't no time to waste it, an' yer goin' to throw coins? In the dark? It's gettin' dark," says The Bleeding Hand's mate, the one that caught my wrists.  
  
"'Tis pretty clear day, dammit, an' yer goin' to cheat us, the two of ye," says The Smallpox.  
  
The Bleeding Hand is cursing all the way, holding his forearm, when the fellow with the head-hole is bandaging him in some rags.  
  
"I'll have 'im anyway," he hisses. "After or before ye, I swear. An' he'll pay me for that."  
  
I can see pure hatred in his eyes and I'm beginning to shiver, for it's clear to me where all this is going.  
  
"'Twas to be a lottery," says The Venera's Crown threateningly.  
  
The Bleeding Hand's chum draws closer.  
  
"No lottery, mate. Let's finish it now, an' swiftly. 'Tis goin' to be fun."  
  
The Venera's Crown is reaching for his knife, slowly, they are looking each other in the eyes. The circle around them splits into two groups, and there is a deadly silence.  
  
"Wait!" yells The Smallpox, who's still holding me. "What are ye doin', mateys? Are ye goin' to kill yerselves 'cause of the lad in lass' clothes? Fer Christ's sake, the lil' brat's deceived us once an' now he's havin' us murderin' ourselves o'er him?!"  
  
They look at me. They want me - and I am to blame.  
  
"Right," says The Venera's Crown as if surprised, "it's him, men! He's goin' to destroy us brethren! He's cursed, we've shed blood o'er him already!"  
  
"Right ye are, mate! His woman died an' he's alive, an' he's all in her blood before, remember?"  
  
"Yeah, we're not goin' to die 'cause of 'im!"  
  
"Curse him!"  
  
"Kill him!"  
  
The once split circle of brethren is united again, and I have no place to hide, no place to run.  
  
The Bleeding Hand steps in the middle.  
  
"Keelhaul him, mateys," he say. "It's only a proper thing fer him, we'll have fun, an' we don't have to wash the deck out of his cursed blood."  
  
"Aye, that's the one!"  
  
"Keelhaul him!"  
  
Somebody takes the rope from the deck. I am blinded with fear and start to fight. It's much more difficult in this heavy dress, and I'm already tired and beaten and hungry and, in fact, drunk, I can't think anymore but I'm kicking and punching them, and wriggling, and screaming like mad, for I'm an inch from death and there's no way to escape, and it's all I know and nothing I can do.  
  
They are pulling my dress and holding it, and it's only because it's made from a rich and solid material that they can't tear it at once. And suddenly I hear an order from behind:  
  
"Stop it an' leave him alone, ye useless swabs! Yer ruinin' the dress, damn ye all! It's worth more than any of ye. Away from him!"  
  
The Captain pushes them aside, and they are stepping asunder in a hurry like a corn-field before a reaper. The Smallpox is the last who takes his hands off me and backs away in panic.  
  
My breath is ragged and I'm trembling like a leaf; I turn slightly to see his face, as he's trying not to smile - but his green, bright, devilish eyes give him away, and his look is that of admiration and of pride. He stands by my side, takes his coat off his shoulders and wraps it around mine.  
  
His men see this gesture and these who are standing closer stop in a sudden bewilderment. They look at the Captain and then at me, and a slow understanding dawns upon them. He doesn't look at me, yet I feel saved already, for his men are like a clay in his hands, and they are not bold enough to disobey. Now they are scared like hell that they angered him - and then they'll have to yield me to their Captain, for it's not a shame to lose something to him. Anyway they know what his gesture means - it means that I'm under his protection from now on and nobody is to touch a finger to me.  
  
...And it's night now, my first night on La Aranha. The fever and heat in me are expiring slowly, and I feel sleepiness embracing me. He doesn't embrace me. He hardly even touched me. He just told me what I am to do. To put the dress down my arms. To lay on my back, lean on my elbows, and not to think too much. He should've to tell me to shut up, for I was asking everything I wanted to know - why did he spare me, what kind of test was that, what is he going to do with me after he's done with me, where are we going - but he wasn't paying attention, undressing slowly, looking down on me; he answered "no", when I asked him if I can put the cursed dress off, so I shut up at last, and gave myself up to waiting.  
  
Did I want to touch him!... But he wouldn't allow me that, shoving my hands off and ordering me to stay where I am, so that he could see want and hunger and pleading in my face. I didn't expect any tenderness, but I wanted to give more than only my consent, and every time I reached for him I was pushed away. All that I had to do was to lay under him, looking at him as he was taking his pleasure and delighting in my ecstasy and pain; for it was a long time since I had been with a man, and I had to bit my lip and then to clench my teeth, and at last I was reduced to panting and begging with my body trembling and my hair damp from sweat. I remember his eyes watching me intently and a little bit too coldly, registering every change in me, and then his body answering to it, and yet I was feeling it's not enough, and despite his orders I was thrashing and thrusting myself against him, desperate to get more of his touch, but all I got was his hands on my arms and then on my hips holding me in place. And I had to obey and to accept everything he wanted me to, until I was able to hold it no more.  
  
He came not so shortly after me, though. And as I could tell he didn't care if I am still lying by his side or not, I sat up. But even that wasn't far enough for him, so I stood up and walked to the window, in dona Ursula's scarlet dress, feeling his seed trickling down my legs.  
  
"I should at last put this bloody dress off," I say. "'Tis too valuable to be ruined."  
  
"Don't worry, ye can keep it anyway."  
  
"Do you want me to wear it all the time, then?"  
  
"An' what if I do?"  
  
"Then I'll have to ruin it."  
  
He laughs.  
  
"Don't you dare. Ye'll have men's clothes tomorrow. Have some patience till the mornin'."  
  
I sigh and sit in the chair. He's looking at me, leaning his head on the right arm; spent and satiated and pleased with himself, and maybe with me too. The candles are still burning, I see their light in his eyes - the eyes that are always judging, even if the lips are smiling. He didn't put his Holland shirt off, just unbuttoned it; the shirt should be long to his knees, but he's tall and it covers only half of his thighs. His skin is fairer than mine, how funny. Where is he from? I wonder if I can ask him about his first name - what would it be? Is he English or Portuguese, or Spanish?  
  
"An' what d'ye want to know my name for, Ritchie? I'm Captain for ye. Just like for the others. That's all ye need to know."  
  
I may have passed his test, but it's hardly going to be the last one. 


End file.
